Hub Coffee Roasters, Reno NV

Hub Coffee Roasters, Reno NV

I brought this mug home. Don't tell anyone!

Trying to get out of the Peppermill, where I was in for a recent conference, I checked my phone to find the nearest coffee place, both to get some coffee and get some steps.

First, I went to Coffeebar, and really wanted to like it. They brew their beans on premises-I was at the Mt. Rose Street location, and the vibe was friendly. The girl at the counter was nice, and I was excited to try their coffee. Unfortunately, it was only lukewarm and had a bitter after taste. But the outdoor seating area was nice, and I liked the smell of roasting coffee.

The following day, I tried Hub. Hub also roasts it’s own coffee, and I had them mix their drip dark and light for me. The young woman who took my order asked if I was going to have my cup on the premises, and when I responded yes, she took the cup and warmed it with hot water (a great touch), and then poured my hot coffee.

Warming the cup first was a great detail, and this coffee was hot without the aftertaste. The Reno Experience District (RED) location is a nice space, too. It’s modern, with large windows and lots of polished concrete. They have a large upstairs area with ample comfortable seating as well as an outdoor area overlooking a new park.

For the record,  the coffee served at the hotel, at both Biscotti's and Café Espresso, was also good, and I'd say that it was better than Coffeebar but not as good as Hub. It was, however, more expensive than both.

View from the upstairs at Hub

Phillippe the Original

 

 

Fresh Coffee!

It’s 2025, and four bits isn’t really a lot of money. But $0.46 is enough to get you a cup of coffee from one of the oldest restaurants in Los Angeles. Phillippe the Original is the best place to go for a French Dip, invented here 100 years ago. The atmosphere of the place is timeless, and the food preparation is still handled the same way it was when I was a small boy, which is the same way it was done when my father was a small boy, too. There are still wooden phone booths lining the wall and sawdust on the floor.

The prices, though are not the same, and have gone up proportionally over the years. Don’t get me wrong, I still think it’s a great value for the money, but it doesn’t cost what it used to-except for the coffee.

Grant it, my first memories of coffee at Phillippe’s was a nickel, the price it remained until 1977, when

Everyone seems to look at the phone booths

 

it jumped up to a dime. The dime held until 2012, when the price more than quadrupled to the current price of $0.46.

How is the coffee?

Actually, not too bad. It’s Gaviña, which is a brand that shows up in many restaurants, as well as Don Francisco and Cafe La Llave. It’s strong, with a smokey flavor and no bitter after taste. Certainly worth $0.46.

The coffee is a great value, but not the reason that people come to Phillippe’s. They come for the French dip. For the uninitiated, a French dip is a roast beef sandwich on a French roll that has been sliced and had the open face dipped in au jus. You can add cheese, and there’s house made spicy mustard at the table. That’s it. The roast beef is always lean and fresh, and still is prepared right in front of you by women who look like they’ve been there since Phillippe’s moved to this location in 1951. Phillippe’s will also make you a similar sandwich from pork, lamb, pastrami, turkey and ham, all dipped in their appropriate au jus. I’ve had the roast beef, pork and lamb, and they’ve all been good. (Interestingly, though I love pastrami, I don’t think I’ve had the pastrami here-I’m going to need to try it the next time I’m in the area).        

My usual.

Phillippe the Original is one of two places in Los Angeles that claim the creation of the French Dip, the other being Cole’s. Both have a great sandwich and claim to have created it in the same year, but I give the edge to Phillippe the Original. I like Phillippe’s Cole slaw and pickles, and my wife enjoys their potato salad. They also have a good cheesecake and carrot cake. Plus, it’s cheaper. Cole’s does have pretty good French fries, and a speakeasy in the back.

My family has been going to Phillippe’s for at least three generations (four if you include my children), and much has been written about it. It’s a great stop before or after Dodger games, or if you happen to be in Union Station.

 

Dog Poop Karma

 

Lovey

Growing up, I had a dog, Lovey, a chihuahua mix that my aunt gave me when my Mom nixed the idea of a German Shepard mix. My mother did not like pets particularly, though after a few years she would consent to rubbing Lovey’s belly with her foot.

I was probably around 7 or 8-Lovey lived until I was 21. She was a smart dog and queen of her backyard, stalking and bringing down birds, gophers and toads. She’d eat the toads by turning them over and going for their soft bellies, surprising my high school biology teacher, who said in class that dogs don’t eat toads or frogs because the poison sacks on their backs would make a dog sick.

My Dad trained Lovey to walk without a leash, and so we’d walk my Bell and later Downey neighborhoods every Sunday evening, and many other evenings as well. Lovey would walk to a corner and wait until I got there to cross the street. Her golden years were spent in the backyard (though my Mom did grow more fond of the dog, she was still never allowed inside), moving around the concrete and laying in the warmth of the sun. We’d walk in the evenings, and I must confess that the idea of picking up her poop on walks was completely foreign to me.

She passed when I was home for my first Winter break. We figure she was about 14. She was a great dog.

Part of my wife’s dowry was her dog Abby, a medium sized dog with German Shepard markings. Abby and I got along well, and I walked her regularly. My wife impressed the importance of picking up her poop on me, which (since I now had my own yard to take care of) I did. As Abby grew older, she did not get along well with small children-especially since my older daughter tried to ride her like a pony, and nipping at the children was not going to happen. We sent Abby to live out her last few years with my father and his wife, a situation that benefited all concerned, and we were dog-less for a few years.

Abby liked to run, and when Abby and I first lived together I was training for a marathon. I took her out for some three milers, and she was fine. Four miles was tough, and then I took her out for a five mile run. It was kind of hot, and at the four mile mark she laid down and refused to get back up again. I carried her back home. From that point on, whenever she saw me in running clothes she would hide. She was okay for walks, and apparently knew the difference in how I was dressed.

We got my son a dog, Shadow, which lived here in the backyard. He was a few years old when we

Shadow

adopted him, and he was king of the backyard, keeping away the field mice, raccoons, opossums and other things that now visit my yard regularly. He was an explorer, very interested in the goings on of the neighborhood at large, and would get out every few months. He was chipped and we’d get a call from someone somewhere here in town to come and get him. Shadow had things to see and do. When my son went off to college, I said that I’d walk Shadow every night except Fridays and Sundays. However Shadow couldn’t read a calendar, so every night at about 8, he would start knocking on the back door, especially if he saw me. I’d have to sneak around if I didn’t want to walk the dog. Shadow would generally lead our walks, though he was accommodating enough if there was something that I wanted to go see. It was the two of us out walking the night of the Thomas fire, and we hung in the backyard together while watching the hillside burn. My wife got another dog at about that time, a prissy indoor dog, and the two would play together in the mornings and afternoons.

When Shadow got older, he would still attempt an escape, but it was more for show. He'd go out in the front yard and look for me, waiting until I saw him. Then he'd look at me as if to say, "Hey Rick, I'm running now-why don't you come over here and catch me, and then we can both go back to the house for a biscuit." I'd walk toward him, and he'd make a show about running a few hundred feet and then wait for me. Then we'd walk home.

When we put Shadow down due his declining health, (we think he was about 14), I was totally happy without a dog, but my wife and daughters felt that I needed one, and got me Benji, a Springer Spaniel mix. I got Benji about a year before COVID, and during the shutdown, we walked all over Ventura, covering pretty much every street and alleyway within a five mile radius of my house. With Benji, I discovered that walking a mile and a half to the beach was hardly a walk, and we've tried every coffee house in town-I'll write about them all this summer, though I've mentioned a few (Copper Coffee Pot, Tatiana's, Simone's) already.

Benji

When Benji arrived, I felt that I needed to win back some karma points. As an adult, I’ve always cleaned up after my dogs, but with Benji, if he poops near some other dog poop, I just go ahead and pick it all up. It’s small in the scheme of things, and I’m not going around cleaning everyone’s yards. Most likely whatever lawn has the excess poop doesn’t know it’s even there, but somewhere I am balancing the scales of karmic dog poop-ness, and I feel a little better knowing that someone will not have to wake up to poop on their lawn.

Oasis-What's the Story Morning Glory?

Oasis-What’s the Story Morning Glory?

 

 

I really like Definitely Maybe, too, and went back and forth on which one to put here. The first two Oasis albums are a great 1-2 punch for Brit-Pop, and a couple of my favorite 90s albums.

In the mid-90s I was living in a small apartment in Pasadena, and I’d finally started making a little money. I decided that it was time to actually learn to play guitar, and so I went to Guitar Center and bought a Epiphone PR-5 cutaway from Korea, which I found to be bright and very playable. Then I headed to a small guitar shop, and hooked up with a teacher, who’d show me some basic blues riffs and scales, which I still use to warm up, and then I’d play a tape of a song that I wanted to play. He’d break it down for me and then write up the tabs, which I would then go home and practice.

I actually got fairly competent, and I could play from sheet music and follow along with other players.

It was the early days of the internet, and America Online had guitar chord forums, and from that I pulled Wonderwall. It’s a simple chord progression, capo on the second fret starting with an Em7, which sounds fancy until you finger the rest of the progression. I was playing it once in a guitar store, and a pretty girl came up and asked what it was, which was really nice. It meant that I was playing something that sounded like a song!

There are many things that I would like to say to you,
but I don’t know how,
except maybe
are you gonna be the one that saves me
and after all,
you’re my Wonderwall

Is something that I would have liked to have written, and the woman I might have written it to then just passed away last week. The video was visually interesting, too, shot in black and white (except for a colored guitar) with Liam singing in a dentist chair placed inside a warehouse and Noel holding a megaphone, singing the chorus in Liam’s ear.

But there are other songs that I really liked, too. Hello starts the album with phased/fuzzed power chords over a bed of acoustic guitars, She’s Electric (from a family full of eccentrics) shows the fighting Gallagher brothers had a sense of humor, and the epic power-ballad Champaign Supernova (where were you while we were getting high?), closes out the album with a touch on melancholy.

Actually, as I listen to the album playing now, melancholy seems to run through many of the songs, like Don’t Look Back in Anger or Cast No Shadow.

Back in the 90s, in spite of the dense sound filling my apartment, I felt like I could play every song on the album. I still feel that way now, making the whole thing relatable.

In  2014, a three disc reissue of the album was released, with remastered sounds, b-sides that I had collected back in the day, and some live performances. I picked it up on eMusic (in the early 00s eMu was a good place to find odds and ends. Not so much anymore) for the price of one disc, and it’s very good.

Tom Waits-Rain Dogs

 Tom Waits-Rain Dogs

When I was 14, I used to watch Fernwood 2Night, (and later, America 2Night). It was a fake talk show from the world of soap opera Mary Hartman Mary Hartman, that had a combination of real guests and guests from ‘Fernwood,’ the mythical town that the talk show was based. Martin Mull was the host, with legendary Fred Willard as his side kick, playing alter egos Barth Gimble and Jerry Hubbard.

Since I was only 14, most of the jokes flew over my head, but the ones I got were pretty funny. Tom Waits was a guest on the original Fernwood 2Night, and I couldn’t tell if he was for real. He sang The Piano has been drinking, not me, and it seemed like kind of a put on, and then his interaction with Mull and Willard was some sort of drunken ramble concerning a broken tour bus and borrowing 20 bucks. It was hysterically funny for a kid who was just leaving Dr. Demento behind and finding his way toward punk rock. I saw Waits as more of an actor, first, since he was a favorite of Francis Ford Coppola and showed up in several Coppola films-I remember him most from Cotton Club.

I picked up Rain Dogs sometime in the late 80s, and there was so much happening on the record that I was immediately attracted to it. I knew about Tom Waits, but really didn’t have any other exposure to his music until buying this album. The opener, Singapore, with it’s odd percussion and unusual word play (“making feet for children’s shoes,” “Wipe him down with gasoline/’til his arms are hard and mean”) pulled me in immediately, and set a tone for the album. It seemed to describe those seedy international port areas that may or may not exist in real life.
 

The other songs were equally dense, and faded one into the next. I could recognize Mark Ribot’s  stinging guitar lines (Keith Richards, G.E. Smith, Robert Quinne and Chris Spedding are in there too), but there wasn’t a rhythm guitar as such in the music. In fact, beyond the percussion and double bass, I’m not sure what instruments were carrying the songs, so it’s appeal was unusual to me and my usual guitar based musical taste. Most songs were difficult to sing along to as well, not because Waits is a great vocalist-distinctive but not great, but the song structures were unusual.
 

Jockey Full of Bourbon, with it’s “Two-dollar pistol but the gun won’t shoot,” seems like a scary place with a dangerous narrator, but the singer for Hang down your head for sorrow, hang down your head for me, may well be the same person looking at what he’s done. Time is a sad song, but I don’t quite understand what’s happening. I’ve always been attracted to the line, “Well she said she’d stick around until the bandages came off.”

Another gruff voiced singer, Rod Stewart, had a hit with Downtown Train, proving that Tom Waits songs can clean up nicely.

My favorite song on the album is the closer, Anywhere I Lay My Head, with what seems like a New Orleans marching band on the fade out. “Anywhere, anywhere I lay my head boys/ Well, I’m gonna call my home.”

I’ve bought several Waits albums over the years, and the Asylum records seem more conventional. It feels like Waits really became ‘Tom Waits’ when he moved to Island, with songs from those five albums feeling like they fit together well, as evidenced by the Beautiful Maladies compilation. His new work is also good (Tom Jones does a great cover of Bad as Me), and Diamond in Your Mind with the Kronos Quartet from Healing the Divide is excellent if you can find it.

Rain Dogs was recently remastered, and is playing in the background as I write this. The bass is very present, (which could be a function of the cheap speakers I have), and the individual percussion instruments seem to stand out more. The sound wasn't bad before, but this does sound a bit cleaner.

Social Distortion-Social Distortion

Social Distortion-Social Distortion

Social Distortion is back on the road, coming to town in a few weeks, and I’ll be there.

Social Distortion was a mainstay on Rodney on the Roq, the old KROQ Sunday night punk rock extravaganza, hosted by Los Angeles’s perennially peripheral Rock 'n Roll character, Rodney Bingenheimer, which was where my listening taste graduated to after years of Dr. Demento. Their second single, 1945, was in heavy rotation and appeared on Rodney’s second compilation album.

Then, in December of ’81, my sister talked me into driving her and her friends to Godzillas, a converted wreck of a bowling alley out in the San Fernando Valley. I wedged my girlfriend, my sister and three or four of her friends into my ’77 green Toyota Celica (not the most I ever got into that car-pre seat belt laws were an exciting time for teenage drivers. And the strangest thing was that everyone’s parents were okay with it), and drove the hour or so from Downey to the venue.

I’d guess that my sister wanted to see Salvation Army, the band that would become the Three O’Clock, which I didn’t care for then because my sister liked them, (but I did own all their vinyl-they were good!), and I liked 45 Grave. Social Distortion was a bit of an afterthought.

Godzillas was a mess of a venue, with several large rooms of teenagers, mostly punk, but valley kids, surfers and others. I stumbled into the room where Social Distortion started to play, and it was an amazing set-band leader Mike Ness blistered through songs like Playpen and Mommy’s Little Monster, and though they were totally hardcore songs, there were harmonies, melodies and pretty good guitar solos to go with the punk rock guitar crunch. The show ended when stage divers knocked down the equipment and Ness stormed off stage. Ness was always anti-stage divers, unlike some of the other bands on the scene.

After that, I saw several Social Distortion shows, and from ’81 to ’84  I’d go see Social Distortion, Agent Orange, X and Wall of Voodoo whenever I could. Mommy’s Little Monster (1983) was a great lp, filled with teenage angst and punk rock fury, and Social Distortion was the high point of the Another State of Mind (1984) film. And then they seemed to vanish.

After addiction and a stint in the County Jail, Ness cleaned up and found old friend and bandmate Dennis Danell and reformed Social Distortion with Prison Bound (1988). Not a bad record, but not like their first one. Like the Rolling Stones, Ness started wearing his blues and country leanings on his sleeve.

The Epic Records debut, Social Distortion, jumped out of the radio. Ball and Chain and Story of My Life are simple, three chord country feeling rockers, with producer Dave Jerden mixing acoustic guitars on the bottom and crunching Les Pauls arching over the noise. The flat out punk rock numbers, like Let it Be Me and She’s a Knock Out seem to ride in on a wave of P-90 glory, with Ness’s crude lead lines surfing over the top.

Since then, I’ve seen Social Distortion several times, including being in the club when Live at the Roxy was recorded (I’m also featured on Kiss’s Alive II). I’m about the same age as Ness, and Downey is Orange County adjacent, so we share many influences. In listening, it sounds like Ness was more of an outsider than I ever was-I really did want to belong, but his songs of growing up echo many of the feelings I had about getting older too.

Songwriters that I seem to relate to because we’re about the same age and seem to be going through some of the same issues include Mike Ness, Paul Westerberg and Matthew Sweet. Other people write songs that I can relate too also, but not as consistently.

Every Social Distortion album is solid, and it was hard to choose between Social Distortion and Somewhere Between Heaven and Hell.

 

Mike Ness

12/7/24

Not a review, but just a quick note-Social Distortion last Tuesday was fantastic! For over 40 years, Social Distortion delivers! 

The mosh pit was much slower then back in the day, but it was friendly like it was when I first started going to shows, and I stationed myself in the same spot I did back then, right at the edge, picking people up and throwing them back in. Of course, the people I was (trying) to pick up were much heavier, and I did have some trouble getting my leverage to throw them, but I liked the energy much better than some of the shows I attended in the mid-80s, where it seemed like the moshers just wanted to hurt people and not just fly around running into people. I guess when you move into your 50s and 60s, hurting people isn't a thing anymore.

Social Distortion's Stage Set

Not to argue with Ness, but he kept alluding to how Social Distortion has been around for 40 years, but that's not quite true. Ness has been, but the entire band has changed several times over the years, though the current line-up has been stable for the last dozen years.

The show was opened by the Defiant, a punk rock supergroup that very much sounded like vocalist's Dickey Barrett's previous group, the Mighty Mighty BossToneS, not a bad thing if you liked them, and I picked up their CD in the lobby, getting the signatures of several bandmembers, who were all chatting up the crowd. Dicky Barrett even slid into the pit during the Social D set, coming over and saying something in my ear that I didn't catch.

The show ended at 11:15, and I'd guess that that back at Godzilla's, Social Distortion was probably just starting their set at 11:15. Old folks got to work the next day.

 

Donovan-The Classics Live

 

Donovan-the Classics Live

What seems like 100 years ago, I had a buddy who was living with an artist on a farm in San Luis Obispo. If I recall, she was reasonably well known on the Central Coast, and though her name escapes me now, she collaborated on a few works with Wyland in the early '90s, among other things.

The girlfriend I had back then and I went up to visit him, which turned into a fight because she didn’t want to stay with them. But we did, being put up in one of her kid’s rooms, and when I woke up in the morning, she was painting in the living room with Donovan’s Classics Live playing loudly. There’s a lot of memories in all that, because it turned into a strange weekend for a variety of reasons, not the least of which was the artist’s much more casual attitude when talking about my sex life. (“I told M——- that you two would get here and f%$@, so there’s plenty of blankets on the bed.” It was true, even though we were fighting, but my Catholic upbringing would keep me from saying something like that).

I’m not an artist-I’m a writer (though if you’ve been reading, you may have your own thoughts), and spending time with her and some painters that were living in her barn was enlightening. I’d just read Brian Wilson’s now discredited autobiography where he was discussing how he thought generally in music, and that there were always melodies playing in his brain. I also remembered taking Spanish in high school, and Sr. Resor explaining that we needed to think in Spanish, and only one phrase ever came to me faster in Spanish than English, “Yo no sé,” (“I don’t know”).

I asked all the painters how they thought, did they think in pictures or words, and then discussed with them their thought process as they prepared to paint-it was fascinating. They generally thought in pictures, and as you might have guessed, I think in words. They didn't seem all that fascinated by it, but I did.

Back to Donovan. Classics Live is mellow, very very mellow to the point of floating away on a cloud. I’ve found a few reviews online, and the knowledgeable music scholars consider this to be a money grab, an artist well past his prime re-recording his classic tunes with the hope that the unsuspecting will pick up inferior versions of the songs the artist made famous on another label.

And it’s most likely true. The Wikipedia page for this album refers to it as Rising, and gives a complicated history for it's release that I wasn't really aware of until I read it. I did know it was a re-issue with a new title when I bought it, but not much else.

No matter. Donovan was a folk singer to begin with, so playing stripped down, acoustic versions of his classics doesn’t hurt the songs in the least. Donovan’s voice is in fine form, and the three new (at the time) songs blend in well, with “Young and Growing,” being one of the best on the album. Hurdy Gurdy Man, Wear Your Love Like Heaven and Sunshine Superman all benefit in this format.

I’ve played it often, pulling it out on Sunday mornings or times when I want some quiet music playing at a loud volume.

My only complaint is that my favorite Donovan song isn’t on here-no Mellow Yellow.